Past
by Snarky - I like it
Summary: John worries about what trauma is in Ronon's past and wants to help. Set after Trinity. Mature Themes.


They were sitting in the cafeteria, not really talking, just eating. John wondered about that. The silences.

At first he just thought it was just a Ronon thing; that that was just how he was. A guy's got a right to be quiet. He himself certainly was sometimes. But after a while he started to realize that that wasn't just how he was; it was how he was made. You could tell when he laughed, when he smiled. He was an open sort of fellow when you got to know him. John found himself trying to make Ronon smile, to see what made him happy. He looked for what angered him, too. He searched every frown to see what upset him, what made him the way he is. It was something beyond the obvious of his seven years, John was certain, some worry that stayed present here on Atlantis, and he would _make_ it go away, forever.

Two weeks later Sheppard sat down next to Ronon in the cafeteria. Ronon didn't even look up, just kept eating; not that that was all that surprising.

"Hey." He got a grunt in response. John picked up his hot dog – well, he thought it was a hot dog anyway, it had that sort of . . . shape – and watched his new friend closely. John's first thought was that something was on some level intimidating Ronon, and that was what kept him closed off.

Ronon didn't seem to care when others ate near him; even if that meant he wasn't in a good position to defend himself from them. He'd also crossed off being clearly outnumbered by surrounding pretty quickly, though John supposed Ronon had already clearly proved his strength against them. But all this had been seen in the first few days; now John was resorting to poking at unlikely and awkward possibilities.

"Sitting awful close," Ronon stated, bored.

Sheppard choked a sigh, scooting over, "Sorry." But, Ronon didn't seem irritated or, in fact, bothered in any way.

The colonel began toying with more . . . proactive ideas to help his teammate.

Another week later, John had finally come to terms; he was going to do it. He had too. He'd do it today, as soon as he saw Ronon in the gym. He'd just go over there and get it over with. Then maybe Ronon would be able to relax around here.

John walked past the gym for the fifteenth time that day – he couldn't stay _inside _the gym, because then he'd have to make an excuse to leave when the time came – so he watched.

John took in a nervous breath as he saw Ronon was now in the gym. If this is for nothing . . . He ran as fast as he could, slowly, though, when someone walked into the hall he was in and speeding up as they passed, not wanting to make anyone suspicious.

It didn't take long; it wasn't all that far away, not when you used a transporter. Mere minutes later he was standing in front of the door to Ronon's quarters, about to raise his hand to the nice little rectangular, blue, glow-y door opener thing. Man he really needed to ask Mckay what those things were called . . .

Swoosh.

John felt like a little boy going into his daddy's office. "This is nonsense," he muttered, "It's just a room."

It was dark . . . alright, that had something to do with the lights being off. But it was still sort of – dim with the lights on; kind of Ronon-esque if John had to describe it, which he supposed was fitting. But he wasn't here for that. He looked around. There wasn't much by personal things; not that he himself had a whole hell of a lot in his quarters, but it made it harder to figure out what was wrong.

There was a good amount of daggers sitting on a side table, and some cloths in somewhat neat piles over there. Sheppard shook his head; he wasn't going to find anything in here. He might as well just leave before Ronon catches him.

Swoosh. Too late.

John turned to look at the door, a million possibilities running through his head: Had Ronon just been looking for something at the gym? Was he just delivering a message? Did he-

Ronon was surprised to see John in his room, but his expression shifted from surprise to something more akin to resignation, and that's what stopped John in his tracks.

"Uhhh, I, uhh, was just . . . umm."

Ronon would not meet his eyes.

While John was at first slightly relieved he wasn't being literally thrown from the room with a bellowing Ronon on his tail, he was beginning to think he might prefer that.

Ronon didn't appear to be about to say anything anytime soon, so John decided he'd better explain.

"I just- I wanted to- . . . you see–"

"My last commander did the same."

"Did what?" John was serious now.

Ronon briefly met his eyes, as if trying to tell whether or not John really didn't know.

There was a long pause, but Ronon answered, albeit delicately, "It was a custom . . . old, outdated, but he didn't care." Ronon met Sheppard's eyes defiantly. "The commander would pick someone. The favorite. The strongest." Ronon spat, "The prettiest."

Sheppard did _not_ like where this was going. "For what?"

Ronon didn't say anything. If anything that just made John surer and surer.

"Where is he?" John wasn't yelling; he didn't need to. The venom in his voice spoke volumes.

Ronon looked at him, pride in his face. "He's dead. I killed him."

That calmed him down enough to realize, to fully grasp what happened beyond what he could see in blind rage.

He puked.

Ronon was instantly beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and a look of concern on his face.

"Ehhh. That's . . ." He took a moment to breath and then looked up at Ronon, his face full of resolve, "I would never. Ever."

Ronon stared at him, a moment of hesitation before a crisp nod. "That's why I'm here."

John knew it would take time. He knew that when he took him onto the team after seven years of running. This is no different.

"Trauma is hard," Ronon looked at him, "On Earth . . . well, the whole point is to talk. And, uh, I'm here, if you want to talk."

They looked at each other for a minute, just looked. This looking was a Ronon thing, never silent, telling everything anyone could ever need to know, and with a curve of his lips and a slouch in his shoulders, he relaxed.

"When I first met him . . ."


End file.
